Fathers and Sons
by GoldSeven
Summary: Set around the time of "Six months ago". As Peter and Nathan deal with their father's death and several layers of guilt, flashbacks reveal how they came to be what they are. My take on Petrelli family dynamics. Rated T for language.
1. 2006 to 2001

**Characters**: Mainly Peter and Nathan, with the rest of the Petrellis making their appearances. Short appearances and cameos by Bob Bishop, Charles Deveaux, and an invisible Claude (at least I think so, you can't really be sure.)

**Disclaimer**: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and a bunch of other awesome people.

**Author's Note**: Sparked by a deleted scene in _Six Months Ago _first and foremost, and then grew rapidly with all the little hints to the Petrellis' past on the show. Contains alternating episodes in the present (Arthur's death until right before the start of season 1) and flashbacks going further back in time with each (as far back as 1979, guess why. ;))

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**Fathers and Sons**

April, 2006

"Dad's dead."

Peter still remembered the complete absence of any feeling at hearing the words from Nathan three days ago. It hadn't even been shock or disbelief. It had just been impossible to comprehend. Nathan might as well have been talking in a foreign language.

The shock had set in when Nathan had pushed him away as Peter had made a step towards him – to comfort Nathan or to be comforted, he wasn't sure; when Peter, still uncomprehending, had whispered, "Our father just died, Nathan…" and Nathan had replied, "_My_ father just died. You gave up on him a long time ago."

He'd given Peter a curt nod and walked away, leaving him standing in front of his mirror, all suited up for the disposition that was never going to happen now.

That had been the last time he'd spoken to Nathan. When he had arrived at his parents' home – no, his mother's home, now – Nathan had not met his eyes. Peter had not been able to muster the nerve to call his brother over the past few days. He wasn't sure how he would have dealt with it if Nathan had still avoided him.

"Peter? Peter!"

Peter snapped out of his thoughts and became aware that Stephanie, his colleague, had apparently been trying to get through to him for quite a while now. He straightened in the white plastic canteen chair and shook his head a little to clear it. "Sorry. I… I guess I wasn't listening. What did you say?"

"That your lunch is getting cold and we're supposed to be back up in the ward in five minutes." Her eyes were sympathetic.

Peter glanced down at the table in front of him and found that an untouched plate with what might be described as rice and fried vegetables was in front of him. He only had a fuzzy recollection of how it had got there, or what he'd wanted to do with it.

"Pete, nobody would have blamed you if you'd stayed at home for another day. You were entitled to three."

Peter started picking at the vegetables. The carrots fell apart as the tried to get them onto his fork "I couldn't face another day at home with nothing to do."

"Just don't fall asleep on your round, okay?" She arranged her tray as requested by the canteen staff – cutlery next to plate, not on top – and headed off to the used dishes counter.

Peter rubbed his face, and forced himself to gulp down a few mouthfuls of food before getting up as well to take back his tray. The toadlike woman behind the counter barked at him for not disposing of the remnants of his food, and daring to leave the cutlery in the middle of the plate.

"Give him a break, will you?" Stephanie, who'd hung around, snapped at her. "His father just died a few days ago."

"Can't know that, can I?" the woman replied gruffly. "Condolences."

Peter murmured that it was okay, and followed Stephanie out of the canteen and to the elevators.

He, Stephanie and the other thirteen nurses of their year were doing one-week cycles of different kinds of nursing duties to help them with choosing a specialty; Peter already knew it was never going to be surgical ward. It was too loud, too hectic, too many people as a general rule. Right now, however, he was almost glad to be completely involved, to have to focus on something that was not his father or his brother. It was easier to keep focused than he'd feared. The breaks were the biggest problem. Once or twice, when his mind found the opportunity to dwell on the past few days for a longer stretch than he usually permitted it, he wondered what was actually worst – his father's death, or his brother's silence.

Steph suggested that he could come over after work, for a round of Scrabble. He considered it, but then decided against it. He was glad she hadn't offered to talk, but to pass the time; but he didn't think he would be up to it.

Peter took a cab back to his apartment and turned on the TV before he'd even taken off his jacket, just to have some background noise. He didn't care what was on but flopped down in front of the TV just to watch other people's lives, so he didn't have to deal with his own just yet. He fell asleep on the sofa well past midnight.

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August, 2001

"You want to do _what_?"

Peter set his jaw. He had expected this reaction, and had mentally prepared himself for the confrontation he knew must follow.

"I'm gonna do a gap year. Voluntary social work. You said yourself I should get a move on after college."

Arthur Petrelli snorted. "I wasn't talking about… teaching kids in Venezuela to play soccer."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Dad, I said nothing about Venezuela or soccer. Voluntary social work can be anything. Work in a nursery school – a hospital – residential homes, or things like that. I haven't decided yet."

"'Voluntary' implies you're not planning on getting paid, I take it."

Peter had feared that this would be the first topic that would come up. "I can get a place here in New York, I wouldn't have to find an apartment somewhere. It's just one year. What I don't want is to just start any sort of job training and then find out it was the wrong choice. I just need some time to – to sort out what I want to do." He shot a glance at his mother across the table, hoping for some support, but Angela Petrelli remained diplomatically and frustratingly silent.

Arthur Petrelli pushed away his plate with a finality that implied the discussion was closed. "You need time to sort out what you want to do? Join the military. Plenty of opportunities, _and_ you get paid."

Peter had hoped that this particular topic would not come up, but he refused to let his career choices be decided by a soup plate. "Pop, we already discussed that." His voice was quiet. "I'm not gonna do military service."

"What, be the first Petrelli in three generations who doesn't serve his country?"

Peter sighed. "What good is it gonna do the country if I crawl around in the mud? I want to serve the _people_, Dad, not some country."

Arthur cast a look at Angela that said, _Do you hear this? Where does he get the nerve to talk that way?_, but she didn't come to his aid either.

He turned back to his son. "Don't you give me any of that talk, Peter. Just look at your brother for once. He—"

"I'm looking at Nathan! He's kinda hard to overlook, isn't he? But I'm not him!" Peter exhaled sharply, and saw that his mother was now watching the exchange with interest; these exchanges weren't new, but they had never been this heated on Peter's part. Most of them had ended with Peter doing what was expected of him anyway.

"It was… it was different back then, Dad. In Grandpa's time, it was World War II. For you and Nathan, it was the Cold War. I can sort of see the point there. But the Cold War's over. And I – I just don't see the point in doing military service, just because it's been a tradition. Military service, law school – Nathan did all that. It's just not what I want."

"So what is it you want?" Arthur scoffed at him. "Minimum wage? Wiping other people's butts?"

"It's not exactly as if I have much of an overview what other career choices there are, is it? With pretty much the rest of the family being lawyers?"

"And what makes you think that the rest of the family is that misguided?"

Peter hesitated for a couple of seconds before he said what he was going to say, but then he figured he couldn't make things any worse anymore. "You protect criminals, Dad. All sorts of people who ought to be in jail walk free because of you, tax dodgers, mobsters, murderers or – or rapists for all I know—"

"You're being ridiculous, Peter. There's not a single rapist in this country that walks free because of me!"

Peter wondered whether his father had left the murderers out on purpose. "I don't care, right? So everyone in our family's been in the military, so everyone went to law school – I 'm different then, okay? Can't I just be different? What's so bad about that?"

Arthur rose so vehemently that he nearly overturned his chair. "Be as different as you want, Peter. Just don't expect me to pay any of your bills." And he turned abruptly and went up the stairs.

As soon as he was out of sight – and earshot – Angela reached over to cover Peter's hand with her own. "You know him, Peter. If you meant to antagonize him, you couldn't have done any better."

He cast her a sour look. "Thanks for speaking up for me there, Ma."

She withdrew her hand and gave him a superior look. "All I could have done would have been to tell you to stop it after the first three sentences, Peter. And we both know you wouldn't have done that." Peter stared at a stain on the tablecloth in front of him and made no reply.

"Just let it rest a while," Angela went on. "You still have until next summer. Try again in a few weeks. And if you want my advice, leave Nathan out of your reasoning. You think he's done all those things to get them out of your way, so you're free to do something else. It doesn't work like that, Peter. He set the standards, and as long as Arthur lives, he'll measure you by them."

Peter turned to look at her again. "But you won't."

She brushed a strand of hair of his face. "I'll try not to. A nurse, maybe? It would be a change in this family."

He gave her a half-smile. "Thanks, Mom."


	2. 2006 to 1997

April, 2006

"Talk to him, Nathan. He doesn't deserve this. Neither of you do."

Nathan glanced down at his hands folded in his lap. "I don't know what anyone deserves anymore, Heidi."

Heidi used the remote control to bring up the backrest of her bed so that she could reach out to him. Nathan kept his glance fixed on his hands. He couldn't bear to look at her. She looked so pale and worn, and he couldn't bring himself to think about what life would be like after the accident.

"Nathan, I just don't see why you're doing this. To Peter, and to yourself. During a time where you need each other. I know… I know you never liked the idea of… of taking legal action against your father, but you said it yourself – he never knew. And it wasn't even Peter's idea. Just talk to him."

Nathan exhaled sharply, still staring at his interlocked fingers. "What makes you think Dad never knew?"

Heidi frowned. "You said he didn't." She paused. "What aren't you telling me?"

_There's so much I'm n__ot telling you. I can barely begin to figure it out myself_. "Dad didn't die of a heart attack."

"He didn't?"

"He committed suicide."

Heidi sank back in bed, staring at her husband.

"Oh, my God. You think he—"

"I don't know, but yeah, that's what I'm thinking_." I'm thinking that he somehow got wind of what Peter and I were about to do. That he rather committed suicide than to face _that_. That I killed my father_._ That, after becoming everything he ever wanted me to be, I stabbed him in the back._ There was something almost Shakespearean about it, he thought bitterly.

"Oh God, Nathan."

That was pretty much the same conclusion he had arrived at. Nathan got up abruptly, stony-faced, wanting nothing more than to be alone but at the same time feeling he just couldn't leave his newly paralyzed wife like this. So he remained standing in front of his chair, hands clenched in his pockets, staring at the blank hospital wall opposite and wishing she'd just dismiss him, tell him it was all right if he went.

She was unable to say anything to his comfort, and anyway, comfort wouldn't do here, he knew that. What he needed was redemption, on so many levels, and there was nobody to give it. His father couldn't, anymore, and neither could she – because he would never be able to tell her the truth, why she was still in hospital, why she would, in all likelihood, be chairbound for the rest of her life.

He mentally implored her not to start crying now, but couldn't really blame her when she did. She cried a lot these days. She had always been the strong one, the one that nothing could terrify, but so much had happened these past weeks.

Nathan sat down at her bedside and held her, mechanically stroking her hair, eyes still fixed on the wall.

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December, 1997

Peter laughed aloud as he called up Nathan's message on his cell phone during lunch break. It read, 'It's a Simon!!"

Not only did Nathan's use of exclamation marks far exceed the usual – by two, to be exact – but the most recent addition to the Petrelli family had also created a great mystery as to its gender, persistently moving the other way whenever anyone had tried to determine the sex via ultrasound. When Heidi had coaxed Nathan into oscillate his ring above her belly to see how it would swing – back and forth for a boy, round in a circle for a girl – both she and Peter had sworn it had moved in a perfect triangle.

Peter couldn't wait for school to end to see his sister in law, even though he had a feeling that he would have to endure at least a week of being called "Uncle Peter", just because it sounded so ridiculous for someone whose eighteenth birthday was still a fortnight away.

"Hi, Heidi." He leaned over to embrace her as she sat up in bed. "You look good."

"I am good. A lot better than last night anyway." She smiled and looked over at her husband, who was standing near the window with his newborn son in his arms. "Nathan, could you take care of those flowers? I'd do it, but they'd have shrivelled by the time I'd arrived at the tap. Oh no – would you look at this?"

Peter grinned as she unwrapped his parcel and produced one pink and one blue baby sock. "I really didn't know what to get you, and didn't have time to look for something today… If you don't want him to wear pink, you can always have him wear just one sock."

Heidi laughed. "That's sweet, Peter. Nathan, you can give him to me."

Nathan stood holding his firstborn with utmost concentration and gingerly handed him back to Heidi to put Peter's flowers in a vase. "I'd forgotten they come this small."

Peter bent over his tiny nephew, who already had a shock of black hair and whose little fists waved around haphazardly. "Those hands and feet are amazing. I totally wouldn't cover them with socks. The feet, I mean. I wasn't that small, was I?"

Nathan put the vase of flowers on Heidi's bedside table. "You were even smaller, Pete. I think you didn't even have six pounds."

Peter embraced his brother, now that he had his arms free. "Congrats, Nathan. He's amazing."

"Yeah." Nathan clapped Peter on the back and then stared again at the baby in the arms of his wife, who was also still shifting him rather awkwardly until she had found a position that suited them both.

They turned at a knock on the door, and in came Heidi's parents to see their grandson, congratulating Nathan, adding more flowers to the mix on the table and leaving more presents. The room became rather crowded.

Heidi shifted up in bed again. "Nathan, it's all right if you grab a few hours of sleep. Or go celebrate with Peter. Honestly. I'm fine."

Nathan gave her a broad grin and kissed her. "You're wonderful, darling. Isn't she wonderful?" he asked Peter, who grinned back. "She is."

"Let's eat something," Nathan suggested to Peter. "I had breakfast at the hospital restaurant, but judging by that, I want lunch somewhere else. I'll be back tonight, darling."

She smiled. "Enjoy yourselves. And I expect to be taken to the finest restaurant as soon as I'm ready to leave Simon to a sitter."

oOoOo

"So, how does it feel?"

They were sitting in a small Italian restaurant whose owners thankfully took a more modern approach on background music than most others, foregoing the usual Eros Ramazotti in favour of more popular music. And the food was good, too.

Nathan shook his head, grinning. Peter couldn't remember ever seeing him so happy. "Incredible. I can't tell you. It's – like you've suddenly become a different person. Or a second person. The old Nathan's still there, but somebody else has just taken over part of me. Something like that."

"Heidi wasn't disappointed it wasn't a girl then?"

"Ah, no. I think she's just as overwhelmed as I am."

Peter laughed. "It's true then. Petrellis can only do boys."

He was surprised to see Nathan's hand slip on his fork for a moment, and momentarily, the grin was wiped from his face. Peter frowned. "What's wrong, Nathan? Was it – did I say something wrong?"

Nathan recovered quickly and smiled. "Uh. No. I just – I think I bit on something." He made a bit of a show of hunting for whatever it had been.

Peter remained puzzled, but couldn't think of anything to say. He was fairly sure it didn't have to do anything with the pasta al forno, but he had no idea what had made Nathan lose composure there for a moment.

A few lines of song drifted into Peter's consciousness, and he gave a small laugh. "Couldn't have picked a worse song for the occasion, could they?" he said lightly.

Nathan tried to concentrate on it. "Why? What is it?"

"Ugly Kid Joe, isn't it? _Cats in the Cradle_?"

Nathan recognized it now. _But there were planes to catch and bills to pay/he learned to walk while I was away._

"That's Harry Chapin, kiddo. The original. Ugly Kid Joe just covered it." He seemed to have recovered his bearings quickly at the opportunity to lecture his younger brother.

"Oh please, not the 'my generation listened to the better music' sermon again," Peter groaned. "It was still cool."

Nathan became serious again. "I can see why you thought so. You're still mad at him for those school plays, aren't you?"

Peter sighed. "It wasn't just school plays, Nathan. It just seemed he was never there. Not for school plays and not for anything else."

_When I'm coming home son, I don't know when/we'll get together then/you know, we'll have a good time then_.

"He never meant to be mean, Pete, and you know that."

"What about today?" Peter asked, accusation in his voice, though not directed at Nathan. "His first grandson is born, and he has a meeting in LA."

"He couldn't have known, Pete. Come on, the due date was ten days from now. You can't expect him to sit at home for a month just waiting for his daughter in law to have a baby."

"You managed to postpone the meeting you had today."

"God, Peter, I'm the father. Leave Dad alone, just today, just this once. I know he's disappointed you in the past, but he never meant to. Let's not talk about that today. This is neither the time nor the place. Okay?"

Peter exhaled sharply. "Okay."

_And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me/he'd grown up just like me/my boy was just like me_.


	3. 2006 to 1992

April, 2006

On TV, it always rained on funerals. Either that, or it was a brilliantly sunny day in mocking of the mourners. On Arthur Petrelli's funeral, the weather forewent every cliché. It had rained the two previous days, and they day was grey, clammy, and cold enough for the funeral service to drag almost unbearably, but was otherwise completely unspectacular.

There must have been over a hundred and fifty people at the service, and still around a hundred at the feast at the Petrelli mansion afterwards. The feast was one of the dreariest affairs Peter had ever been forced to attend. His parents had frequently hosted large gatherings of business partners and friends (often synonymous, one way or the other) and who knew what other sorts of people, but apart from showing his face right at the very beginning, Peter had never had to be as present as he did today. Of all the people gathered in the house, he knew maybe twenty by name and another thirty vaguely from sight; annoyingly, however, all of them knew who he was. While the fact that it was his father's funeral seemed to give him a bit of a close season where answering questions was concerned, among a hundred guests, there were still enough who tried to engage him in small talk, usually starting with how much he'd grown (this coming from perfect strangers as far as Peter was concerned), and after a while, he began to derive a certain satisfaction from telling everyone who asked that he was a nurse, which served to bring every forced conversation to a speedy and embarrassed end.

Nathan was at the other end of the hall, talking to several former colleagues of their father's.

He had managed to avoid Peter in a way that had been unnoticeable to anyone else; standing on his mother's other side during the service and then mixing with people Peter couldn't have exchanged more than three sentences with.

It wasn't in Peter's nature to bear grudges. He either went for straight confrontation, or, if confrontation was likely make things worse, he tried to make it up with people, which he was usually rather good at. He wasn't used to being cold-shouldered like this, especially not by Nathan, and the silent treatment was worse than any shouting match. He could have coped with that. If he'd even known what it would have been for.

He had no allies here, either. Nathan had come without Heidi; she was still in hospital and couldn't have come, even for the occasion. His nephews were playing with the other kids – few as there were – and his mother was as distant as he had ever seen her. She seemed to hover a few inches above the rest of the congregation, as if removed by a transparent wall surrounding her. She was perfectly courteous, almost regal, und completely unapproachable. She had cried neither during the service nor when the grave had been covered, as if she had shed all the tears there were to be shed, a stone effigy of a Greek goddess or heroine.

After fending off a particularly persistent old friend of his parents' – a bald man with glasses who seemed rather interested in everything Peter had to say and would not even be shut up by the shocking nurse revelation – Peter excused himself and fled from the hall, up the stairs into his father's office, the one room where he knew he'd be safe from anyone entering by accident.

It looked exactly as it had while Arthur had been alive. There was a coffee cup on the desk, even his father's glasses lay neatly next to a few documents and books, as if he might be back any minute. More books on the window sill, dark wooden furniture and an imposing black leather chair behind the desk. Trophies on the mantle, antique paintings on the walls. Arthur Petrelli had made sure everyone who ever entered his office knew who and what he was.

It would never have occurred to Peter to sit in the black chair, so he just sat on the edge of the desk, facing away from the chair, the direction of the door. Next to him was a framed photograph showing him, Nathan, and their mother. He took off his black jacket – ironically, the same one he'd worn a week ago when Nathan had brought him the news of their father's death. He'd have preferred to wear a different one for the occasion, just for very personal reasons of propriety, but he only had the one. In his line of work, he wasn't exactly required to own more than one black suit. Free of the thing, he cast it unceremoniously across the chair, folded his arms and stared at the carpet, tracing the pattern around it a couple of times, wondering how long he could stay up here before someone would miss him, and wondering, too, if he actually cared.

Peter started when he heard footsteps on the stairs, and froze when he saw who was coming up the landing, heading straight for the glass office door, looking as much like a man on the run as Peter probably had, five minutes ago. Nathan had his head bowed and only saw Peter when he was already in the doorframe, and froze as well.

It was probably the most awkward moment they had ever shared. Peter saw that Nathan's jaw was working, as if he was considering for a moment just to close the door again and be off someplace else, but then, slowly, the older man came into the room, closed the door behind him quietly, and sat down in the chair, automatically pushing Peter's jacket aside but not otherwise acknowledging his brother's presence. He immediately looked as if he belonged in that chair, immediately made Peter feel like a child waiting for his father's judgment. It irritated Peter to no end.

"Are you just gonna walk out there again once you've finished sitting there?" he said, his voice hoarse.

Nathan massaged his temple and made no reply.

Peter gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, Nathan, I screwed up. I guess. Tell me what I did so we can get it over with."

Nathan drew a hand across his face. "We can't get it over with, Pete. I wouldn't even know where to begin." His voice sounded so tired and forlorn that Peter felt his irritation vanish.

"Nathan…" He got up from the desk but didn't make any other move towards his brother, Nathan's attitude still keeping him back as he groped for the right words to say. He played through a few approaches in his mind, but all of them, down the road, seemed to end up with himself sulking and accusing and Nathan in stony silence, neither of which was going to help.

"Nathan," he finally tried again, quietly. "I want to understand. I want to understand what's going on. I – I want to help, okay?"

Nathan sagged slightly in the chair. "God, Pete, why d'you have to be so damn diplomatic when all I wanna do is hit someone?"

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Now that'd be a scandal," he said. "A coffinside brawl. It'd sure make Mom's day."

Nathan seemed to sag even deeper, but then got up abruptly and went around the desk. "Come here, you goddamn son of a bitch," he said, pulling Peter into a hug.

"Easy, Nathan," Peter murmured into Nathan's shoulder as he hugged him back. "That's our mother you're talking about." The joke was old, but even today, it got a chuckle out of Nathan. Peter was glad of it, on more than one level; the obvious, that Nathan had given up his position of the last week, and the less obvious, that it helped Peter swallow the lump in his throat.

"What would I do without you, eh?" Nathan said quietly. Then he held his brother at arm's length and let out a long, slow breath. "Peter… I'm sorry."

Peter could tell that these words didn't come to him easily, so he chose to keep anything else he might have said to himself.

"So… care to explain?" he asked simply, after a while.

Nathan looked at him for a few heartbeats, then sank down in the chair again. "I can't, Pete."

Peter sat on the edge of the desk, this time facing Nathan, and frowned. "Nathan, I'm twenty-six. You don't have to go easy on me. I said a minute ago that I want to understand, and I still do."

"It's… got nothing to do with you. It was just… things I couldn't deal with. Yeah, I was unfair. And that's all you're gonna get. Don't ask."

Peter folded his arms and looked at his brother, who would not return his gaze. It sounded to him that Nathan was taking the easy way out – and if the _easy_ way was admitting he'd been wrong, Peter could only wonder what the truth was. But he took the hint and didn't ask. He was too glad to be on speaking terms with Nathan again to risk it another week of silence. If it was important, Nathan would tell him when he was ready.

After a while, Nathan looked up and said, rather incongruously, "I'm gonna run for congress."

Peter gave a snort. "And you just came up with that?"

"No, of course not. I've been thinking about it for a while… mulling things over. I'm gonna do it now, this November. After Linderman. After what happened to Dad. I've been trying to work on a small scale, but it's just not doing any good. So I'll try a different approach."

"Congress?" Peter said, bemused. "I'm not sure…" His voice faltered as he saw the look on Nathan's face. _Don't tell me I can't do it or I won't be able to change anything, Pete_, it said. _I need your support. You said you wanted to help. Don't drop me now._

Peter thought he knew why Nathan had come up with the idea now, of all times. He doubted that his brother would revolutionize politics or make the world a better place if he made it into congress. All Nathan wanted was that, in the event that their father happened to look down from wherever he was now, he'd see Nathan and be proud.

_He might as well_, Peter thought. _He'd probably not even look for me from up there_. But that was all right with him; it wouldn't be much of a change. And it meant that much more to Nathan.

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January, 1992

"Mrs. Weiss?" The classroom door stood slightly ajar, so Nathan knocked on the inside of the doorframe.

"Come in!"

Nathan entered the almost empty room and shook the youngish teacher's hand as she cast a glance at a sheet lying on her desk. "I'm Nathan Petrelli." He saw her slightly confused look and hastened to clear up the ubiquitous misunderstanding. "I'm Peter's brother. My – our parents couldn't make it tonight."

"I see," she said, frowning slightly. "The thing is – Mr. Petrelli, that his is not just a courtesy call."

"That bad?" Nathan asked.

"It could become that bad." She gestured to the chair standing opposite her desk, and Nathan sat.

Nathan shrugged. "Then chances are that I'll be getting through to Peter more easily than either of my parents," he said.

She studied him for a moment, then she nodded. "All right. Now – I want you to understand that it's nothing dramatic yet, but I see something of a decline where Peter is concerned."

"Why? What's he do?"

"Oh, he's not getting in fights or anything… it's just that he starts getting more and more isolated. He doesn't really seem to mind, and it's not that anyone's bullying him. He just seems to be on a mutual agreement with the rest of the class to leave each other alone. He has friends, or people he hangs out with, but they're mostly older than him."

Nathan shrugged. "He's twelve. Puberty kicking in… some boys go this way, some go the other way."

Mrs Weiss smiled. "I know enough twelve-year-old boys to see where there might be a problem and where things will probably go back to normal," she said. "And on a very practical level, I'm worried about his grades."

"His grades?" Nathan asked. Finally, something tangible.

"I won't say he's not a smart kid – he's probably a lot smarter than he lets on, even… but he gets in his own way. Is easily distracted, and while he's never been the most active participant in my class, he's spent whole lessons mostly looking out of the window recently, mostly in subjects he thinks he can do without studying – English, Geography, History... If he continues like this, he'll probably be in for a rude awakening soon." She cocked her head at Nathan. "Does he mention anything at home? Any problems?"

"Well…" Nathan said, "I don't live 'at home' anymore, so I don't see him on a day-to-day basis, but I get the impression he's not happy at school, you're right there. It's like he's just trying to get it over with. Of course, our parents are less than happy with it. I don't think he has any serious troubles that I'm aware of."

Mrs. Weiss gave him a searching look and hesitated a little before continuing, "Does he get… any pressure at home?"

"No. I really don't think so." He never had, and couldn't imagine Peter did.

"What do you do, incidentally? You're… what, at least ten years older than Peter?"

"Twelve. I'm just starting law school now."

"A family of lawyers?" Mrs. Weiss asked with a small smile. When she caught his guarded look, she added, "It's not a bad thing, Mr. Petrelli. Me, I come from a family of teachers and look where it got me." They both shared a laugh. "It's funny how much children will just turn out like their parents, even if nobody ever tells them to."

"That's right," Nathan said, thoughtfully. "I can't remember ever talking about it much. It was just always the thing which everything seemed to boil down to."

"What about Peter? I hope I'm not getting too private, but to me, it looks as if he was not particularly suited for a career in law. Could this be some kind of peaceful resistance against what's being silently expected of him?"

Nathan had never seen it that way. He had never seen his _parents_ that way. Of course, it was obvious that Peter was struggling with school while Nathan had excelled, even though he was fairly sure Peter was not stupid. He suddenly wondered if Peter was feeling constraints he himself had never felt – just because he had always managed to steer a perfectly straight course between them. Another thought that suddenly struck him was that Peter probably perceived his parents in a completely different light than Nathan had, or still did. The thought disconcerted him. It was something he needed to think about, and if he ever discussed it, it would be with the people in question, and not with his brother's English teacher.

He realized that his long silence must read like confirmation of what Mrs Weiss had said. "I'll make sure to talk to Peter," he said, sitting up straight in a manner that clearly signalled that the conversation was over, as far as he was concerned.

Mrs. Weiss was still studying him thoughtfully. "I hope Peter will listen to you. Thank you for coming, Mr. Petrelli. I can't help but think that this wouldn't have been as insightful with any of your parents. And, in the long run, as helpful for Peter."

Nathan nodded, got to his feet, and wished her good-bye. His head was swirling with thoughts on his way home.


	4. 2006 to 1989

June, 2006

"Ah, Peter! Just the man. Come over here. Already off your shift?"

Peter reluctantly followed Nathan through the office building mid-town that now served as his brother's campaign headquarters, through a vast number of desks, _Vote Petrelli_ banners, ringing telephones and a babble of noises all around him.

"Sort of." Peter stepped aside to let a man carrying a towering pile of folders pass, and sighed. "Margaret died this morning."

"Margaret?" Nathan asked, distracted.

Peter threw him an irritable look. "Margaret. The old lady with final stage Alzheimer's that I've been caring for for the last four weeks. That's why I got off early. Look – I just needed someone to talk."

Nathan finally turned round and seemed to see him for the first time. "Ah," he said, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Pete." He seemed to grope for something considerate to say. "She… she was the first person that died under your care, eh?" They reached Nathan's office, and his brother ushered him through the door.

"Yeah." Peter realized it had been wrong to come here, of all places. He didn't offer any more.

Nathan motioned for him to sit. "I, uh, I guess it gets easier over time, doesn't it?" he said, "Not getting too attached."

Peter's irritation grew. "It's my job to get attached, Nathan." It had definitely been the wrong choice to see Nathan just now. Just to make it that much clearer, an assistant knocked once and stuck her head in without waiting for an answer. "Mr. Petrelli, you have a phone call from Mr. Linderman. I'm putting him through on line 1."

Nathan's smile froze slightly as he half-glanced at Peter and reached across to the phone to answer it. "Thanks, Emily. – Hold it for a second, Peter, will you? – Yes? – Mr. Linderman, this isn't the best of – yeah. Yeah, I know. Can I call you back in ten minutes? Thank you. Yeah, good-bye."

Peter stared at Nathan. "What did _he_ want?"

Nathan drew a hand across his face. "I know what you're thinking, Pete, but—"

"No, you don't, because I don't have a clue what's going on. Unless you—" Peter broke off as the answer struck him, and he quickly turned to look around himself, took in the office, the building, the employees, the banners. He gave Nathan an incredulous look. "He's – _financing_ your campaign?"

Nathan laid both his hands flat on the desk before him. "Yes, Peter. Running for congress is expensive. I couldn't have borne all the costs myself, so I needed… investors."

Peter still couldn't believe what he was hearing. "And you went to _Linderman_? Nathan, he's the reason why your wife's in a wheelchair – we were gonna give disposition against him—"

"Yes, and he was also one of our father's closest friends who offered help almost as soon as I had signed up for the campaign," Nathan cut across him. "Look, Peter, I know what you're thinking, but this…"

"You're damn right," Peter replied.

"I needed money, and he gave me money," Nathan said sharply. "That's the point. You see a problem. I see a solution."

"This isn't about financing your campaign, Nathan," Peter said, in disbelief. "It's about selling your soul."

"God, man, gimme a break here, okay? I get it, Pete – it's _your_ job to get attached, right? Well, it's mine not to. In the end, what does it matter where the money comes from? – Sit down."

Peter, who had risen to leave, sat back down again, his face dark. He didn't speak.

"Look, the reason I was gonna talk to you – I got a fundraiser tonight, and I want you to be there." They both realised this was not the best moment for Nathan to ask something of Peter.

"A fundraiser?" Peter repeated, ignoring the look on Nathan's face that told him he already saw the joke coming. "Linderman's been that stingy?"

Nathan got up from his chair and walked around the desk to where Peter sat, putting his hands on Peter's shoulders. "Pete, when we first talked about this, you said you were gonna support me. Right?"

"Yeah," Peter said darkly. _I didn't know what lengths you'd go to in order to get what you wanted, though._

"So, I need you to be around tonight. Same as Ma. My managers suggested it, and I think it's the right idea – you know, family values and all that."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Family values."

"Pete – listen. We live in different worlds, you and I. You can get away with being nice all the time in your own little world. Being righteous, being noble, all of that. Me, I fight in a totally different theatre of war. Nice guys finish last. Right?"

"Right," Peter said, completely unconvinced.

"Good. Can I count on you tonight?"

"Can I just be righteous and noble, or does that go against your campaign strategy?" Peter said testily.

Nathan gave him the smile Peter kept seeing on busses and advertisement walls these days as he clapped him on the shoulders. "That's the boy."

.

.

December, 1989

Christmas, 1989 was one of the times in his life that Nathan wished had never happened.

At the best of times, a Petrelli Christmas was a rather formal affair, including dinner parties that Peter hated because he wasn't allowed to attend, and Nathan hated because he was forced to attend. It was the time of the year when expectations ran highest, which TV, postcards and popular folklore proclaimed to be a time of peace and happiness, and reality never really was able to compete with that, even in good years. That year, it was about as bad at it got.

Nathan returned from his Navy base in Texas on the 23rd, just in time for Peter's tenth birthday and, incidentally, just in time to witness the death of Harvey, the family cat, who was found dead on the living-room windowsill after quietly passing away during the night.

Harvey had been an old cat – sixteen or seventeen, but that was no comfort at all to Peter, who was devastated for the remainder of the holidays. When Arthur, fed up by his younger son's refusal to see anything good in either his birthday or Christmas, proposed to buy him another cat as soon as possible, Peter was nothing but appalled, shouting you couldn't just replace a dead cat like a broken light bulb, and spent most of the next few days in his room.

This gave Nathan the opportunity to bring up the courage to discuss the matter with his parents that occupied most of his waking moments these days. Bringing up the courage took him until late on the 25th. His mother's Christmas carol records had fought a losing battle against CNN; with a US invasion in Panama as well as the Eastern European countries getting rid of their communist leaders in more or less bloody ways, the television was finally running almost all day.

As the photo of a shot Romanian dictator flickered across the screen and Arthur Petrelli was in comparatively high spirits due to the apparent death throes of Communism in Europe, Nathan felt safe enough to bring up the matter of a girl in Texas being pregnant with his child.

He had seen his father truly angry only a couple of times in his life; he had never seen him speechless. He remembered the CNN commentary about the Romanian revolution as being the only sound in the room, as both his parents stared at him, a vein twitching in his father's face, and the strangely calm, almost knowing look on his mother's face.

Nathan had been resolved not to let himself be shouted down, but as Arthur found his voice again, he stood not a chance. Arthur called him a disgrace to the family, to the Academy, to the Navy, to the world at large, and ended up leaving the house to go for a walk, before Nathan had managed to say another word.

Nathan looked after him, thunderstruck, and then turned helplessly to his mother. Angela reached for the remote control and first turned off the TV, for which Nathan was infinitely grateful. He thought he must have seen four dead Ceausescus in the past twenty minutes.

"Who knows of this?" she asked without preamble.

Nathan swallowed. "Just Meredith and I. I – don't think she's told anybody yet."

"No doubt you've given this some thought," Angela said, her face still completely unreadable.

"Yes. I – I'm not going to leave her alone with this. I'll help her – I love her, and I—"

"For God's sake, Nathan." Angela cut him short and got up abruptly, standing at the window with her back to him. "Stop this nonsense. You're twenty-two; you don't know a thing about love."

His first impulse was to tell her that she'd been twenty-one when she married Arthur; but then he realised that this was probably the most foolish thing to say just then.

"You're really going to throw everything away for some girl who was smart enough to get you in bed?" she asked. Nathan wanted to say that it hadn't been like that – not entirely like that – but she went on, "If this came out, you'd have to leave the Academy, it would forever be a stain on your career. Oh, yes, Nathan, I know you. But this is not the time to get noble. I'll talk to your father when he gets back. First and foremost, this girl needs to be convinced that she'll keep quiet. And you will not have anything else to do with this. Let me and Arthur handle it."

Nathan cleared his throat. "When you say you're going to convince her…" he began, but once again, his mother cut him off.

"The less you think about this unfortunate business, the better for you. No, Nathan, I won't let you deal with this. I'm sure your father can have you transferred somewhere else if he talks to the right people, just to have you out of harm's way. You're not going to see her again."

Nathan didn't protest. A small part of him was still insisting that he'd got himself into trouble and he should be the one who got himself out again, but the larger part was relieved that matters had been taken out of his hands.

"You'd better not be around when Arthur comes back," Angela said. "Make yourself invisible until tomorrow. I'll talk to him." She turned around to look at him again. "Nathan – there's something else you should know about your father. We thought we shouldn't tell either of you, but now I think it's time for you to know. Arthur hasn't been well recently. This summer – that was not a heart attack."

"Not a heart attack?" Nathan replied, dumbfounded. Just when he had thought that this could not possibly get any worse, he found new catastrophes just waiting to be stumbled upon.

Angela slowly sat down on the armrest of the armchair he was sitting in, and looked at him intensely. "He survived a suicide attempt. He has a severe depressive disorder, Nathan. Has had it for years now, although we thought that he had it under control."

Nathan stared down at her hand caressing his forearm. "Depression?" he asked, aghast. He'd had no idea. Suddenly, the silence in the room seemed to bring down the walls on him, and he almost found himself wishing that the documentary was still running.

Angela continued to hold his eyes. "Your father and I have known this for a very long time now, but it has become worse recently. For his sake – let me handle this. Keep out of this _completely_. Do you understand?"

Nathan nodded slowly.

"And don't, _ever_, tell Peter. You've seen him when the cat died. This kind of disorder can be genetic. We don't want him to know that depression might run in the family. Can you keep this secret? For your father's sake, and for Peter's?"

Nathan nodded again.


	5. 2006 to 1984

June, 2006

In the end, it wasn't Peter at all who very nearly crashed Nathan's fundraiser.

All afternoon, as he went home to change in preparation for the evening, Peter wondered how he could have been so naïve to think Nathan was able to finance his campaign out of the petty cash, or why he'd never asked himself where all that money must have come from.

The truth was that this campaign seemed to split them further apart than they had ever been in their lives. While the age gap between them had always meant that they didn't have much in common to begin with, there had always been a deeply rooted faith on Peter's part that nothing could ever truly divide them. Now, just as Nathan seemed to be unable to deal with the fact that his brother had become a hospice nurse, running for congress seemed to bring out the worst in _him_. When Nathan had first mentioned congress, Peter's initial, irrational reaction had been to regret that he'd be in Washington most of the time if he was elected. Now, any considerations of space seemed irrelevant in the light of what was happening to Nathan. And then there was the nagging feeling that recent developments probably couldn't bring out anything that hadn't been there in the first place.

For a while, Peter considered just staying at home. Drinking champagne and smiling for the cameras seemed to be terribly wrong after what had happened this morning. Eventually, however, he did the inevitable and the predictable; he shaved, put on the suit, picked up his mother, and did what was expected of him.

He was surprised and uncomfortable to find his mother in a pensive, almost sentimental mood, wanting to discuss his father on the ride to Nathan's campaign headquarters. He limited himself to noncommittal remarks, until she said, at one point, "You know what really created the breach between you? When he offered to pay for your school after all, and you refused."

"Ma… all I ever got what his money. I never wanted any of that, and I didn't want any of his alms."

"Is that what you thought it was?" Angela replied. "To him, you rejected him personally, Peter. Signing a pay check with his name was the closest Arthur ever got to saying 'I love you.' And he never even realized that other people didn't understand what he was trying to say. Especially you."

Peter didn't know what to reply and was glad that, at that instant, the taxi pulled up in front of Nathan's office building.

The party was just as Peter had expected it to be; after two hours of speeches, champagne, hors d'oevres, forced conversation and answering the same questions half a dozen times, he just wanted to go home. He managed to stay out of too much press scrutiny, but still didn't think leaving just then would have been a good idea. His mother had risen to the occasion with her usual grace; it was impossible to tell whether she was enjoying herself or was just keeping up the pretence so well. She chatted to complete strangers in a way Peter would never have managed – or maybe they weren't strangers at all. It was never easy to tell with Ma.

Peter ended up standing and talking with a few of Nathan's interns for most of the evening, with whom conversation remained more grounded than with New York's upper crust, even if it meant having to put conversation on hold every once in a while when their catering duties were called upon. Nathan drifted over in a couple of times and made jocular remarks that sent the girls giggling, and Peter had a growing feeling that the jokes were for the nearby reporters' benefit. His mother seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself across the room. It only occurred to Peter after a few high-pitched peals of laughter that she might be enjoying herself a bit _too_ much.

He excused himself from talking to Emily, the one who had announced the Linderman call earlier that day, and slowly walked over to the table where she was standing with several people Peter didn't know – he supposed it was a mix of journalists and "old money" people – feeling distinctly uncomfortable but realising soon, with a horrible feeling in his stomach, that Angela was drunk.

"Oh, you wouldn't _believe_ the sorts of things you go through, having Nathan as a son," she was saying to an audience that was half smirking, half paying rapt attention, "and don't get me started on Arthur – half bluster and half—"

Peter fought the urge to break into a run on the last few meters, half-gliding, half-jumping to her side and nearly jostling the man standing next to her out of the way. "Ma," he said, mortified, gently shaking her elbow, "I think you'd better go home now." At least he did succeed in making her break off in her tale.

She turned to favour him with a superior look, which he found hard to return – just then, she didn't even look drunk. She pinched his face and replied, in an exaggeratedly even tone, "No, Peter, I think not. I was just beginning to enjoy myself on this dreadful event. You could use something to drink as well, get you to loosen up a bit—"

"Ma!" he began again, his voice almost pleading, but just then, Nathan appeared next to them.

"For heaven's sake, Ma!" he hissed, then cast an imploring look at Peter. "Get her home, okay? And try not to cause a ruckus on your way out!" He turned around to their mother's conversation partners, announcing in a forced tone that his mother was not well and that his brother was going to see her home safely; this resulted in some chuckling, and one elderly woman said, "Oh yes, I think we all know that kind of unwellness…"

"Ma, please," Peter said under his breath. "Just – come with me, okay?" He put an arm around her, managing to steer her a few feet away from the table. He felt that every pair of eyes, from the other tables as well, was on them now as he fervently hoped she would just come quietly, and not cause a scandal.

She threw him a long, searching look that, again, looked hardly drunk at all. Whether this was because she was pretending – which Peter found impossible to believe – or because of his own rather limited experience with excessive drinking, he still felt uncomfortable returning it. Finally, Angela gave an almost imperceptible nod and didn't put up any further resistance as he propelled her towards the exit.

"Now what was that about?" he asked her when they were safely outside, and he saw that heads inside the building were slowly turning away from the glass doors again. "What'd you do that for?"

She turned to follow his gaze, but then, she suddenly sagged, and he barely reacted in time to catch her. "I'm fine," she murmured as she straightened again. "Fine."

He managed to stop a cab on his third attempt, not letting go of her, and helped her climb in the back seat. "Central Park, corner of 59th," he told the driver, then shot his mother a glance as he sat next to her. She leaned back into the seat, eyes closed.

"Ma?" he said, as concerned as he was bewildered. She shouldn't behave like this. It turned his entire view of the world upside down. Seeing her as anything but in control was deeply disconcerting.

She turned her head to look at him, and smiled.

Angela insisted that Peter take the taxi straight on to his apartment, but he wouldn't have any of it; he ignored her protests and even went inside with her as she fumbled with the keys. He had never truly appreciated how large, and how dark, the house seemed, and it hit him how lonely she must feel here. Peter turned on as many lights as he could and helped her to the living room, where she sat on the settee, leaning back with her eyes closed again, and he went to get her some water.

Angela looked almost sober again when he returned, but infinitely tired, murmuring her thanks as she accepted the water from him. He glanced around the room, at photographs of him, and Nathan, and his parents and relatives hanging or standing almost everywhere, reminders of a past in which this house had been full of people, full of her family. He felt sorry for her, but could think of nothing he could have said.

Angela finally set the glass down on a small, carved wooden table. "It's all right, Peter," she said. "I'm all right. You don't have to stay here. Get back home. I'll be fine."

"You sure?" he said doubtfully.

"Absolutely sure. Peter… Thanks." She was back in control. A part of him relaxed.

He gave her resigned smile and wondered what Nathan would have to add to this in the morning. "Anytime, Ma."

.

.

July, 1984

"—the opening ceremony, for the first time in history, held by President Ronald Reagan—"

"Wee-oo-wee-oo. Look, there's a house on fire! Wee-oo-wee-oo … 'We need to help,' said Luke Skywalker, 'we have to save the princess—"

"—the boycott of the Olympics by nearly all the Warsaw Pact states, with the single exception of Romania—"

"'I can help,' said Superman. 'I can fly.' – 'No, you can't. You're wearing your underwear outside your pants, she'll laugh'—"

"Peter!" Arthur shouted. "I told you you could watch the opening ceremony, but if you're just going to make a noise, do it somewhere else!"

Under his breath, Peter continued, "Okay, I'm gonna save the princess."

Nathan looked up from his book and grinned as he watched Peter with his odd assortment of toys under the living-room table: a fire engine, and a few of Nathan's old action figures, consisting of Superman, Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, and Chewbacca. Not being allowed to read comics and being too young to watch _Superman_ or _Star Wars_, Peter had only the vaguest idea of what these people (and Wookiee) were supposed to do, but made up for this lack of background with remarkable ingenuity in combining Marvel heroes and fire engines. Not to mention the storybook language he usually displayed. At four and a half, Peter loved his picture books and knew his favourite ones off by heart. Nathan didn't mind not being able to hear the commentary – the boycott was hardly fresh news – and he found it hilarious to listen to Peter playing. He would sometimes find himself stopping on the landing when he walked past Peter's room and the door was ajar, just to hear his most recent takes on super-heroism. Much as a little brother was annoying at times – especially at such times when Nathan had to baby-sit him – Peter did have his extremely entertaining moments.

And there were few enough truly entertaining moments on this summer vacation. As in most years, they were spending the summer in their holiday home near Cranberry Lake, in the Adirondacks. At sixteen, Nathan could have thought of a dozen more interesting spots to spend his time, but to his father, fly fishing was pretty much the only option for any given vacation, and since he was very firm about pointing out that he was the one who did all the hard work all year long, it was his to decide where the family spent the summer.

The smell of fish filled the room; summer vacation usually smelled of trout. Today, it was one Nathan had caught, although Peter had insisted he had helped. Nathan supposed you could call it that; Peter had managed to keep more or less quiet while Nathan had been fishing, and so Nathan had grudgingly allowed him to pose for a photograph with the fish with him.

As President Reagan started his speech, and Luke Skywalker's and Superman's joined efforts to save the princess became somewhat noisy again, Arthur curtly sent Peter to help his mother with the fish for dinner. Peter moped, but then trudged out anyway. Nathan went back to his book. If he was honest, Trigonometry was not half as exciting as he made it out to be, but he wanted to make a point of preparing himself for his junior year at High School. And he wanted to make a point of how little this sort of vacation appealed to him. Still, he found himself reading the same pages several times over after a while, and was almost glad when his mother finally called that dinner was ready.

Nathan had to admit that the trout smelled fantastic – and there was something familiar, almost nostalgic to the smell. He made to sit down at the kitchen table when he realised that Peter wasn't there. Angela seemed to have noticed the same instant as he; together, they asked, "Where's Peter?", and exchanged startled looks.

"I sent him to help you," Arthur said.

"I haven't seen him," she said, rising in alarm.

"It's getting dark, "Arthur said, concerned. "Nathan—"

"Yeah, all right," Nathan sighed and got up from his chair to walk out into the warm night.

The lake looked dark blue in the dusk, and the trees at the edge almost black. Out here, everything suddenly seemed much less cramped than in the small holiday house; on the contrary, there was a vastness to the scene Nathan had never truly appreciated.

"Peter?" he called. There was no reply.

He jogged down to the wooden footbridge at the lakeshore. He'd told Peter several times since their arrival that he must be careful down there; the wood was slippery, and Peter couldn't swim very well yet.

"Peter!"

_He_ nearly slipped on the footbridge, just barely caught himself before he fell, and felt annoyance rising at the sight of the small figure sitting innocuously at the edge of the lake.

"Dammit, Pete, we were worried. What're you doing down here anyway?"

Peter half-turned, but didn't answer.

Nathan sighed. "Come on, Pete, the fish's getting cold."

As Peter still made no move, Nathan gave another sigh and sat down next to the boy. "What's the matter?"

Peter looked at his bare feet dangling over the water. "Dad shouted at me. It was unfair. There wasn't even any contest on yet."

"He wanted to hear the speech. It was the president. And he'd told you to be quiet."

"I _was_ quiet."

"Things _did_ get a bit more involved when they were about to rescue the princess, though." At these words, Nathan couldn't quite hide a twitch in the corner of his mouth. Peter was quick to catch it, and grinned.

Nathan put an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Come on, buddy. They're worrying in there. They probably think you've fallen into the lake, and the trout are having _you_ for dinner right now."

Peter stared at the dark lake, and shivered. "Would they do that?" he asked, as they got up to get back to the house.

"No idea. Maybe they've been waiting to find out."

oOoOo

Nathan paid for his attempt to scare Peter later that night, when he heard the light patter of his brother's feet by his bedroom door.

"Pete," he groaned. "Get back to bed."

"I can't sleep," Peter replied in a small voice. "I was dreaming about those trout."

_Serves me right_, Nathan thought groggily. _And why on earth does he always wake _me_ when he's got two parents sleeping just next door? _"I was just putting you on, Pete. The trout won't eat you. And they won't come out of the lake to get you."

Apparently, the mental image he had just conjured didn't help matters at all.

"Can I sleep in your bed?" Peter asked, in an even smaller voice.

Nathan turned to the wall with a sigh. "Aw, if you have to. But BYOB."

Peter crept off to fetch his own blanket.


	6. 2006 to 1979

September, 2006

"I'm sorry, sir – I missed the subway by seconds, and then it took me half an hour to get a cab." Peter set down his bag. "It won't happen again."

Charles Deveaux smiled as he lay back in bed. "I'm not in a hurry. And I told you to call me Charles. Even when you're late."

Abashed, Peter pushed his hair back behind his ear. "Yes, sir. I mean, Charles. I'm sorry." He quickly changed into scrubs and prepared to do his customary check-up. "How are you today?"

"Not as well as yesterday." This was customary, too. When Peter had started to care for Charles, three weeks ago, the latter had still been in a wheelchair most of the time; now, he hadn't left his bed for several days. "What about the pain?" he asked quietly as he took out his stethoscope.

"Worse, actually."

Peter finished auscultating Charles's heart and turned to consult the night nurse's notes in the monitoring file lying on the bedside table. "Caroline give you any morphine?"

"Yes. Sometime around midnight, I think."

"It says 11 PM and 3 AM here." Peter opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, where syringes and morphine were kept. "I think we'll need to up the dose a bit. Oh, and then I'll take care of that." He nodded towards the bedpan, and then started to prepare the morphine injection. He saw Charles relaxing a little as the drugs took effect, squeezed the old man's hand, and went to take care of the bedpan.

"So," he said with a nod to the open newspaper on the bed, as he returned from the bathroom. "Still following the stock exchange?"

Charles gave a chuckle. "You know, Peter, that's what I love about you. You manage to leave a man his dignity the very instant you're disposing of his piss. That's a gift, that."

Peter smiled. "I guess I could do worse as far as gifts go, eh?"

"Oh, yes. Or do they teach you that kind of thing at nursery school?"

"It's nursing school, actually, Charles. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that one, my brother could quit knocking me around for my badly-paying job."

Charles became serious again. "Ah, yes. I imagine your folks gave you a couple of earfuls for that. Not quite what's expected of a Petrelli, is it?"

Peter cocked his head, intrigued. He remembered his first day with Charles – remembered his amazement that his mother, who had accompanied him for reasons she had refused to tell him, seemed to know Charles.

"So you really know them, do you? Not just my mother?"

Charles smiled. "It's New York. Everyone runs into each other sooner or later."

"Stop kidding me, Charles. I saw her greet you, like an old friend. And now you're talking about my father like you knew him."

"So, if it's not chance, what else do you think it might be?"

"I don't know – destiny, maybe?"

The smile on Charles's face remained, although it became more guarded. "Yeah, Peter, I knew him. Not your brother so much; it's been a while since I came by on a more regular basis. But if the Arthur I knew back then didn't change too much in later years, I find it all the more remarkable that you managed to follow this calling of yours."

Peter found himself slightly at a loss of what to say. He had never dreamed he might be discussing his father with Charles Deveaux.

Charles seemed to feel Peter's discomfort, and went on in a more cheerful tone, "But well, that's just what old men do, isn't it? Always nagging their children about what's the right thing to do, because they're too conceited to just shut up and tell them they're doing fine."

Peter was still searching for something to say in reply, when the door opened, and Charles's daughter Simone entered.

In the first week or so, Peter had been rather prone to suddenly dropping things when this happened – and he was definitely glad that things had taken an upturn since then, but Simone Deveaux had that effect when she entered a room. Tall on her high heels, always dressed in a way that would turn anyone's head without really looking as if this was her intention, with her generous curls and those incredibly grey eyes. If Peter had met her under just about any other circumstances, he would have asked her out the first week, but he felt it was completely inappropriate to ask the daughter of a dying man, who he just happened to care for, out on a date. Peter was sure that Charles knew exactly how he felt about Simone, although the old man had never made a comment on this. Not even when Peter had accidentally knocked over a tray of pills on his second day.

"Hi, Dad. Hello, Peter. Everything all right?" She set a large folder down by the door as she came in. Peter had been able to gather that she had something to do with art; she frequently talked about gallery openings and vernissages. She had brought flowers; her way of dealing with things seemed to be pretending that her father was simply ill, but would recover. She rarely talked about death, and became uncomfortable whenever the topic was brought up – always by her father, as if he was gently trying to nudge her into a more candid handling of the topic, but she avoided being nudged, just as gently. Peter had seen it before, and he guessed it was a common coping strategy.

Simone gave him a bright smile as she passed him, which Peter hoped he was returning in a sort of natural way, and he excused himself to give them some privacy, going to the kitchen to make some coffee. She usually liked a cup, too.

Once out of Simone's immediate area of effect, his thoughts returned again to the conversation they'd had just before she had entered. He was still baffled that his new employer seemed to deeply rooted in his family's, even his own past. It would certainly account for the way Charles always seemed to know what was going on in Peter, at least to some degree.

He hung around in the kitchen for half an hour or so, out of sight but in calling distance if there was an emergency. In the short time that he'd worked in hospice care now, he had experienced, time and time again, that he was a stranger intruding on something very private. There had been varying degrees of just how intrusive he had felt. Usually, it was the relatives that responded less well to him than the one he was caring for, as if his presence was the undeniable proof that a loved one would soon be gone.

In Charles's case, the feeling of intruding was almost nonexistent, apart from a few awkward moments with Simone. Peter enjoyed the sort of good-natured banter he and Charles had going; it made him feel completely at ease with the old man. It was almost like a father-son relationship – or rather, Peter corrected himself mentally, what he thought an ideal father-son relationship should have felt like. He had never achieved anything like this with his own father; life had somehow kept getting in the way.

His train of thoughts was interrupted by Simone entering the kitchen, and his initial plan to ask her to stay for a cup of coffee was forgotten almost instantly as he saw the look on her face. She looked as if she was fighting back tears.

"My father – asks if you could help him into the wheelchair and get him out on the roof terrace. He said – he said the thinks it might be his last chance for an hour of sunshine."

Peter got up from the kitchen chair, and nodded. If this hadn't been Simone, he probably would have found something comforting to say, but with her, his mind felt completely empty. He gave her a pat on the arm that he hoped didn't come across quite as awkwardly as he feared it did, and headed back to the living-room to get out the wheelchair. Simone told him a rather hasty good-bye, picked up her folder, and fled.

The day was glorious, one of those late September days that felt like an extension of summer rather than the first days of autumn. For a long while, neither he nor Charles said a word as they sat watching the rooftops and the speck of green that was Central Park far below, with the Empire State just visible in the distance. Peter watched a flock of pigeons zooming around the building several times for almost five minutes, until it vanished behind a structure some twenty yards away on the same rooftop, and wasn't seen again.

"Do you keep pigeons here somewhere?" Peter asked, looking at the place where they'd disappeared.

"No, not me. There's an old pigeon coup somewhere over there, and they obviously have someone who feeds them, or they wouldn't come back. Or maybe they just look after themselves."

"Didn't think pigeons were smart enough for that sort of thing," Peter said doubtfully. He thought he heard the clatter of a pigeon coup being closed, somewhere out of sight, but it might just have been the wind.

After a while, Charles said, "You know, Peter… what we talked about earlier. I suppose your folks've been giving you a hard time lately."

Peter looked down at his hands and shrugged. "I… It's all right, really. I knew when I signed up for nursing school that I wouldn't get a lot of support from home. I can live with that. It's just—" He broke off.

"Didn't have a chance to make it up with the old man, did you?"

Peter shook his head.

"Tell you what, Peter – when I see him, I'll tell him. Would that work?"

"Tell him what?" Peter asked.

"Oh, everything he needs to know. The things you couldn't."

Peter couldn't help smiling in spite of himself. "Yeah. I guess that'd work."

.

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December, 1979

Nobody had asked him, but well, that was to be expected. His parents didn't usually discuss any of their plans with him, much less wait for his approval, and Nathan had never felt as though they should. With the single exception of that little piece of information his mother had relayed to him sometime in early May; that he was about to be an older brother.

It had felt weird then, and felt no less weird now. Nathan had been an only child for twelve years, and he had never thought it might ever be any different. Those of his friends with younger siblings had never even had the chance to truly see themselves as only children. Little brothers and sisters arrived before the realisation could that you were not an only child anymore. That was the way things ought to be.

He hadn't told his friends. One or two knew, because they'd been round his place and seen his mother's huge belly, and Nathan had been so embarrassed about this that he had just shrugged and half-nodded in answer to their questions.

At twelve, Nathan was old enough to know that there would be a lot of changes to the way things ought to be, and yet he completely lacked the imagination of envisioning what they might be. And anyway, he had other problems right now, and his main problems were called Julie Winter and Danny Norton.

He was walking home from the cinema, having left the movie about half-time. It hadn't been his idea to go see "Star Trek" in the first place, but Julie had suggested it (probably because she thought it might be his kind of thing), and since he had a very serious crush on her, he didn't dream of saying no, even though he'd mostly left science fiction of any kin behind as being too childish. He'd been so excited all day that he'd almost managed to forget that his mother was about to give birth any day now; he'd spent the last of his pocket money to buy popcorn for Julie, not thinking he might be needing any more money today – her folks were going to pick them up again after the movie, the month was almost over, and Christmas was coming up, which usually helped his financial situation too.

And then a couple of guys from school had entered the foyer, and while Nathan had hoped they'd just walk on, Julie had waved to them and asked him if he minded if they sat with them.

Of course he minded. And of course he'd just said "sure".

So they'd been in a group of seven as opposed to the one on one Nathan had anticipated, with Danny Norton in it, who was the type of person who thought everyone must love him because he was good at football. To top off everything, Danny had even sat next to Julie, eating most of the popcorn _he'd_ bought, and when they'd started goofing off together, Nathan had risen and left the cinema. He had hoped that Julie would call him back, but no such luck. She hadn't even noticed.

So he was now trudging back home, nearly an hour's walk, with cold hands and feet and still furious at Julie, Danny, and the world at large. His hands were so frozen that he dropped the key twice when he tried to unlock the front door.

"Ma?" he shouted as he entered.

He was met by Anne, the housemaid, running down the stairs. "Oh, Nathan! Your mother went into labour two hours ago, they've taken her to the hospital."

"She's in hospital?" Nathan asked, stunned. Even though he'd known it could happen any day, the fact that the baby was on the way was highly disconcerting. "Is my father there?"

"I tried to call him at work, but he wasn't there. I left a massage, but of course I don't know if he got it yet."

"What's he doing at work? It's Sunday! And it's nearly Christmas!"

"He got an urgent call half an hour before… well, before the labour started."

Nathan looked around wildly. "I'm taking a taxi to the hospital." There was some money for emergencies in a drawer upstairs, but his parents had told them not to let the servants know about this. He ran upstairs under the pretext of getting his mittens – which was not the worst of ideas at any rate – and took out a couple of bills, then phoned the taxi service for a cab.

Once he sat in the taxi, he wondered for the first time what the heck he was going to do once he arrived at the hospital. With some luck, his father would be there. But what if he wasn't? He went through a couple of frightening scenarios in his head, but then chose to break off and deal with things as they came.

After hearing the news from Anne, it took him another hour to get to the hospital and find the right ward and, eventually, the right room. He was told that his mother was doing fine, that no, his father hadn't arrived yet, and no, that he couldn't see his mother right then. A part of Nathan was relieved. Everything was taken care of, and he wasn't needed.

He sat down on a chair in a small anteroom, and half-heartedly browsed through a couple of magazines.

Not quite an hour later, a nurse exited the room, spotted him, and came towards him with a bright smile. "You're the big brother then?" she asked.

"I – I guess I am."

She took his hand and shook it vigorously. "Congratulations! We're currently cleaning up your mom and your little brother, but you should be able to see them in half an hour or so. Your mom's fine. And so's the little one."

"A brother?" Nathan asked. It felt neither right nor wrong. He just realized that he had never even assigned the baby a gender. In his mind, it had always been "the baby". Now, with this revelation, a few flashes of possible futures set in – a faceless, dark-haired boy playing with cars and reading comics, playing football or baseball. Nathan was slightly startled when he realised that, in order for his brother to be the right age for playing baseball, he himself would probably be in college.

His father arrived twenty minutes later, and of course, he was admitted in straight away. Nathan noted that he, too, looked slightly taken by surprise, and slightly out of place. He didn't say much before he vanished through the door, and Nathan was alone again. It felt utterly bizarre to think that his father and mother were beyond that door, with a son that wasn't him.

Contrary to what the nurse had told him, it was another thirty-five minutes before he was finally called into the room. His mother was lying in bed, and the first thing that registered was how exhausted she looked. Nathan had never seen her even remotely like this, and it frightened him.

His father was sitting in a chair by the window, smiling, but there was an unmistakeable air about him of a man who was just trying to be out of the way of things he couldn't relate to.

He couldn't see the baby.

Angela looked up as Nathan entered, smiled, and held out her arm to hug him. He hugged back very cautiously, entirely unsure about how much hugging she could even take now.

"Where's – the baby?" he asked.

Angela smiled and turned to an open door leading to an adjacent room, where Nathan could hear the sound of water – and another sound, which would probably best described as grunting. He always thought babies cried.

After a minute, a nurse came from the room, carrying a bundle of blankets out of which peeked a tiny red face.

"Nathan," his mother said, in an almost formal tone, "meet your brother Peter." But she was smiling.

The nurse carrying him was the same one who had told Nathan, an hour ago, that he had a brother, and she gave him another bright grin. "Wanna hold him?" she asked.

Nathan looked taken aback. "Uh – yes."

She carefully handed him the baby, showed him how to support the head, and immediately, the little boy, who had been quiet while he was in the arms of the nurse, seemed to sense his insecurity and made a face, making those little complaining grunting noises again. Nathan could only stare. The baby didn't seem to weigh anything at all. Gingerly, he rocked him a little. Either the newborn liked this or was too surprised to keep up his complaints, but he fell silent. Then the eyes opened just a fraction, to see what this was now that was holding him. The light in the room was dim, so Nathan couldn't quite make out the colour, but they looked dark.

"Hi, Pete," he said quietly.


	7. Epilogue

September, 2006

He was standing on a rooftop, near the edge, looking down at the streets and alleys some fifteen floors below him.

The wind lifted his hair and the back of his coat as he watched the tiny dots of cars down in the streets, mostly dark ones with bright yellow cabs dotted between them. The people looked like ants. He suddenly wondered, if the city had a mind to think and eyes to see, if this was what it saw, or what it thought. Millions of people, all living their own little lives, all with their own little worries. It felt comfortingly inconsequential from up here. Lost keys, lost jobs. Troubles with bosses, arguments with spouses, with parents, with children. Anger at the football team for losing the last match. Worries about grades or careers. About money. About sick or dying relatives. There must be tens of thousands of lost keys down there, and hundreds of dying relatives. But it all looked so small. Insignificant.

He knew, with a conviction that is rarely found in the waking world, that if he made a step forward right then, he wouldn't fall. He didn't hesitate to find out. He took that step, and there was no falling, no plunging sensation that so often causes us to wake up from sleep. He was floating, and then he was flying. He flew over rooftops and through alleyways, over parks and between high-rise buildings, the East River and Long Island. The city remained far below. He would have been content to keep going for hours.

Peter jerked awake with a start, sitting up in bed and taking several minutes to get his bearings. He was almost surprised to find himself in bed. He still felt as if, just a moment ago, he'd been flying.

Only once in his life had he had a dream that had been as vivid, and that was when Nathan had had his accident, six months ago.

He rubbed his face and looked at the alarm clock beside his bed. 7:23. He grabbed the phone, to call the only person in the world whom he knew he could tell.

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(_... the beginning._)

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Author's notes

On Petrelli family dynamics: I tried to keep his believable and tragic-free at the same time. I had real-life references for the behaviours of most of the people I write about, including Arthur Petrelli (although I would never want that particular person to find out…). I tried to avoid too much of "you're no son of mine" with Arthur and too much fluff where Peter and Nathan are concerned – I see their relationship as a very complicated one throughout season 1.

On research: I researched a ridiculous number of areas for this, including but not limited to elections into congress, the US educational system, the Summer Olympics 1984, Box office hits of 1979, US fishing resorts and duties of a hospice nurse. There are bound to be things that don't work – if you spot one, let me know!

Thank you for reading! :)


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